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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25183561">The Foxhole Diner</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganaa4/pseuds/morganaa4'>morganaa4</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>All For The Game - Nora Sakavic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Exy (All For The Game), M/M, Mentions of past abuse, mentions of scars</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:41:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,489</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25183561</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganaa4/pseuds/morganaa4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew is used to the work, the regular stream of customers and the constant nothingness of the Foxhole Diner.<br/>That is, until a new man walks in.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>161</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Foxhole Diner</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Fox Hole Diner is quiet, the sizzling of bacon and gurgle of the coffee machine background noises to the silence that engulfs the restaurant. A woman sits by the counter, a cup of lukewarm coffee clutched in her hands. A father and son sit in a booth by the front, the sun filtering through the windows along the room lights the small child more than the flickering neon bulbs. The lack of noise is not uncommon, as is the lack of clients. </p><p>Andrew is used to the slow pace of his work, he would be glad of its tranquility if he could bring himself to truly care. While the little boy blabbers on by his father’s side loud enough for Andrew to hear bits and pieces of his story but not enough to fill the void, the man stands by the counter, fingers itching for a cigarette. </p><p>The smell of bacon finally filters through the room as Seth finishes the order consisting of a bacon burger, a side of fries and a kid's menu. Andrew taps his knuckles on the counter top, waiting for the usual ring announcing the food is ready.</p><p>It comes just as the door opens and the bells welcoming a new arrival ring out. Andrew does not bother looking up, grabbing the plates and several napkins to prevent the mess that is bound to happen with an overactive child in the place. He only catches a glimpse of the newcomer, covered from head to toe, the hood of their sweatshirt pulled up, hands in its pockets. The fabric look threadbare, barely holding on. The person is not much taller than Andrew, that is all he takes notice of before heading for the booth. The son has finally stopped talking. His eyes light up when he notices Andrew heading their way, eyes wide in anticipation. He shouldn't place to much hope on Seth's cooking. The child says thank you, so does his father and Andrew leaves them be, grabbing the empty cups and wiping a small pool of coke on the table before the child sticks his sleeve in the sugary mess. He leaves them without a word, like he usually does. The cups and dirty rag gives him an excuse to stop by the counter before getting the newcomer’s order. </p><p>If there is anything enjoyable about working in a small diner on the outskirts of a small town is that, even as it stands as the only opened restaurant in the area, there are hardly any visitors. Rarely are those who discover the restaurant by mistake. It is on a main road, yet the road only sees car pass in a hurry. The main clientele consists of regulars that Andrew could count on one hand. However, once in a blue moon, a trucker stops by for breakfast or a family takes a pee break on their way to their first holiday in three years. If Andrew could muster an ounce of care, he would be concerned for Wimack's business. After working in this desolate town for more than four years after a treacherous college life, Andrew is happy to let Wimack lose his money on a lost cause if it guarantees Andrew a job with minimal effort from his part.</p><p>In the time it takes for Andrew to head to the counter, the newcomer has decided on a seat close to the door, with a good view of the restaurant. Andrew catches a small glimpse of red before grabbing a towel and taking is time to clean the bar’s countertop. A stain of coffee has made itself at home on the worn wooden counter, no amount of scrubbing has seemed to make a difference. The man knows he should head over, take the newcomer’s order and be done with it. However, Andrew, if anything, is a creature of habit. A newcomer breaks the routine and Andrew is all too willing to make him patiently wait out of spite.<br/>
Or maybe it is simply because Andrew could not care any less that a customer is being made to wait two more precious minutes.<br/>
After making sure, once again, that the stain is there, that it will not be removed simply with forcefulness and contempt, Andrew pushes the towel onto his shoulder and heads to the booth by the door. </p><p>The person is still unidentifiable, their head hidden behind the hood of the black sweats except for the tuft of reddish curls sticking out at the top. They are dressed in grey and brown, things that warrant no second glance. </p><p>As he gets closer, the newcomer lifts his head slightly. Andrew first notices the eyes, their colour, a blue like the Arctic ocean, if he was the type to compare colours to wonders of the world. Andrew is not, he settles for an icy blue, cold and striking. Freckles fight to break through the scar tissue on tanned cheeks, cheekbones high and slant. The man is unusual and no amount of ugly clothes can hide his evident beauty. The scarred cheeks are put away in Andrew's mind to think about later, as well as the light stutter inside of him. Andrew has long since ignored any signs of interest in beautiful things, knowing what it can hide. But this is not just a beautiful thing. </p><p>"What can I get you," Andrew grunts, hip pushed against the table, his body facing the young man. </p><p>From his position, Andrew takes notes of the uneven skin on the man's hands, the slight stubble on his chin, the purple underneath his eyes. On the surface, he looks young, maybe younger than Andrew. He clears his throat, his voice his rough, a voice that has seems to fight to come out, as if unused for days on end. </p><p>"Coffee, please." He does not look up, his eyes trained on the menu. His thin wrists look in need of a batch of pancake, a cheeseburger and probably half the menu.</p><p>"Anything else?" This is said nonchalantly, customer service 101. The man finally looks up with as  blank an expression as he can muster behind the blinking eyes. </p><p>"Well, is there anything without ten pounds of sugar?" One of his eyebrow lifts up, accompanied by a slight corner of his mouth, looking between a scowl and a grin. The expression is neither friendly nor hostile, more like someone with a severely rusted social etiquette. Andrew scoffs internally and lifts his hip off the table, leaving without an answer. </p><p>He returns a few minutes later with the coffee, places a cup in front of the man with a bang and pours the poor man a full cup without looking his way. He leaves as soon as the cup is near overflowing, grabbing the father and son duo’s empty plates on his way to the kitchens. </p><p>It is still morning, the sun hidden behind the fog and the cold mist clinging to the windows. The kitchen window is pushed open while Andrew uses the space to ready a meal, enough to let the odours escape but not enough to freeze customers’ toes. The kitchen is big enough for several cooks but Andrew preferes the emptiness of being alone while Seth takes a breaks. He prefers the low season, even more during the early morning, with its lethargic pace.</p><p>He takes his time behind the cooker, spatula in one hand, the other one itching for a cigarette. The peppers are chopped, the bread heated in a toaster while the eggs are fried with a minimal amount of oil. The bacon is placed in a pan, left long enough to crisp. Once the bread is set on a plate, the slices are buttered, the eggs and peppers placed on top, the bacon sizzles along its side and pepper and salt is sprinkled lightly on top. The meal is simple, a mix of choices available on the menu, something that is rarely ordered by customers, who usually come looking for the rich, sickly sweet pancakes on offer or the meaty burgers, leaking with fat and sauce. </p><p>The plate, like the cup of coffee, is placed unceremoniously on the table with extra bread and butter in a basket by its side. The cup is refilled. The man looks up again. This time, a genuine smile graces his features. It is rusty but his eyes are softened by the strech of his lips, the small dimple on his left cheek. Andrew turns on his heels just as the young man whispers a thank you. </p><p>Every morning after that day, the man comes to the diner. Sometimes, the rain clings to his curls, the auburn darkened by the spring drizzles. Other days, sweat clings to his cheeks, his forehead, as a bandana holds the ringlets away, sneakers filled with dust and grass stains after an early run. </p><p>He comes in, sits at the same booth, every side of the diner visible to his half lidded eyes, his shoulders hunched with fatigue, maybe defeat, Andrew does not want to know. He sits and Andrew comes by his table, keeping his distance. Everyday, he orders coffee, everyday Andrew heads to the kitchen, prepares plates without the usual amount of sugar and syrup, without the grease of overcooked bacon and soggy buns. Everyday, the man smiles, learning to balance the curve of his mouth just right as the days pass, to crinkle his eyes without a pinch of mistrust, to lean back against the seat and breathe. </p><p>Andrew definitely does not notice the lack of fidgeting after a month of his visits to the diner, he also does not notice, of course, the purple under the young man’s eyes nor the freckles marring his cheeks after the sun has had time to settle on his face. Andrew those not notice when it is a good day, when the smile is easier to build, no need for glue to fix the corners. Andrew does not notice when it is a bad day, when a hood obscures the man’s face, adding shadows where it should not be possible. </p><p>But Andrew definitely knows that there can be times where a face has not enough nooks and crannies to hide the dark brewing inside, that darkness that can escape through the cracks, spilling on cheekbones and eyelids, stripping all colours until there is only nothing.<br/>
Everyday he brings him coffee. Each morning, without a word, he places a plate of varying recipes. Each time he says nothing.</p><p>On the sixth week, the man spends the morning his eyes fixed on a laptop, dictionaries and papers emcombering his space, Andrew refilling his cup every few hours. The week after is much the same, save for the time spent in the diner. The redhead does not leave before the lights are abruptly shut off, Andrew by the door. It is dark out, a street light  flickering by the road, raindrops beating against the ground, puddles overflowing. The man has lifted his head from his papers, eyes wide, blinking from the dimmed lighting. </p><p>“Oh, sorry,” he says, gathering his laptop, the books uphended on the table. “I didn’t see the time.”<br/>
He manages to collect his belongings in record time, pages amassed in his ratty backpack and is by the door in seconds. Andrew finally opens the door, the wind whistles inside the diner, the rain reaches their toes balanced on the highest step. The young man whispers a thank you before bracing himself against the elements, no hood today to ward of the deluge. Before he knows what is happening, Andrew grabs one of the forgotten umbrellas by the door.</p><p>“Wait,” he says. The word is flat, quiet. The man stops, his shoulders tense. Andrew moves slowly, making sure to circle the man, maintaining a certain distance. He does this for himself, he thinks. Once he is visible enough thanks to the flares of vehicles as they pass the parking lot and the street lamp’s feeble bulb, Andrew extends his hand with the umbrella. The man stares at the hand, frown pronounced, his features hesitant. </p><p>“Take it,” he says. Tentatively, the young man reaches for it. He barely has time to enclose his fingers around the object before Andrew lets it go and walks to his car. Seconds later, the engine comes alive and Andrew accelerates onto the road. </p><p>The next day, an umbrella is placed on the counter along a sizable tip. Andrew places it in the jar and returns to wiping the counter.</p><p>A week later, Andrew is tired. The diner is busy, busy enough to warrant Kevin’s help. Families filter in through the entrance, most likely participants of the local school's event that took place earlier in the day, something to do with music, or maybe sports, Andrew does not bother to tune in for the answer. Teenagers prepared to celebrate the start of summer order milkshakes they leave untouched, too busy planning their trips across states, the parties they will host. Customers come and go, except for one, who sits by his booth, laptop open and eyes transfixed on the screen. </p><p>By the end of the afternoon, six glasses have shattered on the tiled floor, four temper tantrums have been endured and fifteen customers have threatened to add a negative google review if the fries were not replaced by less soggy ones in the next minute. The diner has emptied significantly. Kevin hangs his apron and Seth leaves through the backdoor for his break. Andrew continues to refill cups and wipe juice stains off countertops. </p><p>He watches the redhead from the corner of his eyes, which is how he notices a group of teenagers, snickering, pushing each other towards the lone man. Andrew stills, then shakes himself and continues his work. He ignores the laughter, the jeers sent the man’s way as he neglects their attention, his eyes never straying from his screen. Then one of the boys crowds further into his space.</p><p>“Look up Freddy,” he laughs, finding his own words hilarious. The redhead does not have the time to utter the word “no” before Andrew is by his side, arms folded and command clear. </p><p>“Waouh, is this a midget convention?” The other teens guffaws. Andrew does not budge, the other man is on his feet, body ready to throw a punch when seconds ago it had been docile, controlled. The teens, bullies in the making, look over the two smaller men.<br/>
There must be something in the way they hold themselves, in the way they stare, unflinching, that makes the teens hesitate and withdraw.</p><p>“Come on, this place sucks anyway.” They leave, but not before throwing their half empty drinks on the floor, one landing by the redhead’s feet, another leaving a large stain on Andrew’s armbands. </p><p>Not for the first time, Andrew curses the respect he has for Wimack and, consequently, the diner and watches the clients leave patiently before heading back to his tasks. A voice stops him.</p><p>“Wait.” Not unlike the other night, the same word stops Andrew in his tracks. He turns his head slightly to the other man, enough to see him shrug off the worn grey long sleeve flannel shirt he is wearing over a tshirt riddled with holes. Myriads of scars, deep cuts and burns, eclipse his tanned arms. </p><p>Andrew looks away slowly, blue eyes against hazel as he faces the other man. A hand reaches for him, a shirt in it, not so different from the umbrella the other night. A gesture, a thank you, the acceptance of something unknown. It is the knowledge of Andrew as someone, someone other than an apathetic waiter. The blond takes the shirt, goes through the backdoor just as Seth returns from his own break. </p><p>The sun is dulled by the clouds as Andrew steps outside. He pulls on the shirt, pulls off the tainted armbands. It is tight against his shoulders but the sleeves brush over his knuckles, concealing once again what the soiled armbands had been hiding. The gravel shifts under agile footsteps. A halo of red and gold stands before him.<br/>
“I thought it might be too big,” the young man teases, his stance at ease in Andrew’s presence. Unlike minutes ago, when he was ready to pounce, he is smiling. Andrew looks away, has a cigarette between his fingers that disappears as suddenly as it appeared. Nimble fingers, close to the flame like old friends, encircle the weapon of self destruction. The young man breathes in the smoke, lets it fill his lungs as Andrew lights a second cigarette. The stand close, let the flames turn into cinders and smoke. </p><p>Every day at the diner is the same until it isn’t. The next day, the man heads straight to the counter, bypassing his usual seat. He climbs on a stool and clasps his hand in front of himself on the counter. His back is tense, his eyes unable to survey the exits and escape routes. Yet, he settles in front of Andrew. The other man is in the act of drying the newly washed glasses, his apron lose on his bulky frame. He looks the man’s way, quirks an eyebrow before he has realised what he has made his face do.</p><p>The young man catches his eyes. Andrew finishes cleaning the glass he is currently holding, slowly and meticulously. The young man watches him, does not initiate conversation or demand his attention. Once again, Andrew wonders how eyes so fragile, so light, can find themselves attached to a body so scarred, a man so weary. He takes his time, places the glass where it is kept on the shelves behind him and turns slowly back to his regular customer. </p><p>It is a sunday, a day he is blessedly alone to take care of the diner, where he is unlucky if he sees more than one soul with each strike of the clock's needle. The kitchen is quiet, no fizzling from the stove nor putrid odors of oil and burnt mistakes. Andrew readies the coffee, black, no need to bring the cream nor the sugar, he has learned through the man’s visits over the weeks. </p><p>“Can you make it stronger?” The words stop Andrew’s hand before he has had the time to drop the scalding cup and return to his polishing. He turns to the man, cup still in his hand.<br/>
“There is no making this coffee stronger, it is as black as can be,” he hesitates before he drily adds a ”Sir.” </p><p>“Neil.” The man keeps his eyes on Andrew, fingers softly hitting the counter to an imaginary rhythm. Andrew stares back, eyebrows definitely out of his control today. </p><p>The man continues. “That’s my name, Neil. Not sir.” He tugs at a strand of hair unconsciously. “And I meant, stronger as in something like an irish coffee? Or do you need me to explain what that is in more details?” </p><p>There is a smile hidden behind the accusation of Andrew’s lack of brewing knowledge, a teasing tone that Andrew does not expect. Yet, the tone fits the man he has been observing for days, the slight tremble of the man -- Neil’s hands indication of the kind of day it might be. Still, he is at the counter, smile at the ready and Andrew turns without deigning to answer. </p><p>A few seconds letter, the cup finally lands in front of Neil, a sweet, bitter concoction he inhales as soon as the mug is clutched in his hands.<br/>
Outside, the rain picks up, the wind blows through the pines, the storm unrelenting against the windows, blurring the parking lot, the road to nowhere. 
Inside, soft music plays, a song on lost lovers and broken hearts, Neil is the only customer, he concentrates on his drink, the lights hitting his cheeks, the scars bright against the neon lights.</p><p>Andrew wipes the counter tops, sweeps the floors, checks cupboards and shelves. Neil finally moves as Andrew finishes the discarded glasses, polishing the gleaming cups and wine glasses and bowls. He does not head to the exit, which would not have ended well, no money had yet to be placed on the counter. </p><p>The jukebox is an old thing, lime green and purple, clashing horribly with the orange fabric of the booths and the wooden countertop. The selection is limited, a smaller margin for horrible musical tastes. Neil manages to press the button to the one awful song beyond measure. Andrew cannot help but groan at the choice. He should not be surprised, each chosen outfit over the weeks the man has made have solidified a lack of taste or effort that Andrew’s eyes have had to adjust to. </p><p>A voice sounds over the music.<br/>
“I don’t think I have ever used a jukebox.” Neil is looking at Andrew, not waiting for an answer as he comes back to the counter. Andrew does not say anything, the radio’s music being drowned by the clearer, louder sound of the other machine. Neil sits down before arranging his chin in his hands, elbows on the counter. </p><p>“I don’t think I have ever listened to music intentionally.”</p><p>Andrew stares back, does not say anything and Neil takes it as encouragement to continue. </p><p>“I have only ever heard the radio, and even then, it was mostly old, country music. At least, I think that’s what it was. I don’t know much about music.” </p><p>He stops then, tilting his head to the side, wondering, maybe, how those words have flowed so freely from his mouth. Andrew thinks it is unusual, Andrew thinks he does not like speaking to or hearing strangers. Andrew lets the man continue though, his attention split unevenly between his task of cleaning and listening. </p><p>Neil talks of times on the road, alone or with someone, he does not specify and the details are vague. He speaks of countries filled with songs that he learned to understand and places where he never had the time to discover the sounds properly. He fills the diner with soft words coming from a not so soft mouth, adds to the melodies that continue from the radio that has been turned up again once the jukebox had completed its round.</p><p>Then, as suddenly as it started, Neil stops. The clock continues to tick away, the coffee has been refilled and sloshes cold as he drinks the last drops in his cup. He stares up at Andrew, who has long finished polishing. Neil coughs, tugs at his hair, the auburn longer around his ears.</p><p>“I don’t usually speak to waiters, or people in general,” he admits, head bowing slightly, embarrassment coloring his cheek as he realises the things he has spewed. </p><p>Andrew does not know what it is, maybe the way his eyes lose some of their light, or maybe it is the sincerity in his voice, rough from inacyivity at first, then softened by Andrews quiet presence. Maybe it is the scars or maybe it is the daily visits and the small smiles, guarded but opened to Andrew’s standoffish attitude.</p><p>So Andrew opens his mouth and words, sharp and clear, flow from his lips, carefully cultivated to form sentences. He speaks of a quiet being broken by 2000s pop albums on repeat when his cousin decided to ride shotgun, of dark melodies that should never really ever be listened to through headphones when one is sixteen and on the verge of something. He listens to himself and does not stop the words even when he speaks of songs chosen to irritate his brother and songs chosen for himself, for once something for himself. He talks of the jukebox and Neil’s poor life choices and Neil scoffs and says that he tried, but hey the name seemed fitting and it’s Andrew’s turn to scoff and Neil smiles again, this time wider and his eyes seem even brighter. </p><p>Then the bells by the entrance resonate in the empty restaurant and a group of teenagers enters, laughing and pushing each other across the alleys between the booths, shouts of hello’s reach the men’s ears and Neil drops his gaze. Andrew places the dish towel on his shoulder, leaves the safety of the counter to get his second order of the day.</p><p>By the end of his shift, Andrew is exhausted. After the group of teens spent their afternoon drinking milkshakes and gossiping, the place filled with people trying to escape the storm. Not long after the clock hit noon, Neil had taken a bill out of his pocket, had nodded towards Andrew and left the warmth of the Fox Hole diner to brave the storm. Andrew was left to man the counter and the kitchens, too busy to think back to their exchange of words, to the stories shared. </p><p>It surprises Andrew, the ease with which he had given those memories away, gave them substance and passed them to another being. It does not feel like they were stolen, however, more like an equal exchange. The ease with which he lowered the shields is still disconcerting. Maybe because the man in front of him let his walls crumble without scrambling to put the bricks back together in front of Andrew, maybe because Andrew knew the man did not expect anything in return. </p><p>He wipes the tables, turns off all appliances and does a round of the restaurant, turning each light switch off from the kitchen to the entrance. The alarm is set and his jacket sits snugly on his shoulders before he hits the cold and heads home for the day.</p><p>The next day, and the day after that, Andrew does not head to the diner. His days off, usually a sort of relief, are filled with images of blue eyes and sharp smiles. He reads, makes coffee and indulges in tubs of ice cream. He gets a call from Nicky, answers after his fifth attempt, listens to the older man talk of nappy changes and vomit clinging to his hair, of first laughs and a tired partner. Andrew listens then hangs up to Nicky’s “you better pick up on the third ring next time”.</p><p>When on Wednesday he parks his car by the back entrance at five thirty, a figure sits by the dumpsters. Neil is crouching, his knees drawn up, arms around his knees holding them in place. He looks up as Andrew approaches, a small smile graces his features.</p><p>“Hey,” he says. </p><p>“We are not open yet.” Andrew watches as he lifts himself up, cracking joints and rolling shoulders.<br/>
“Oh, yeah, I guess it’s still early. I - I’ll just wait here then.” He scratches the back of his head, pushes himself out of Andrew’s way. The other man gets to the entryway, keys in hand. He opens the back door. Seth is not due until opening time in an hour. He enters the diner and holds the door open, waiting. Neil must feel Andrew’s stare because he looks up, surprise easy to read on his face. </p><p>“I- It’s okay, I can wait,” he says again. Andrew does not move. Eventually, Neil follows him inside. </p><p>It becomes a routine, Andrew opens the back door and Neil follows, he places his bag on a chair at the counter and heads for the jukebox. Each day he choses a song less terrible than the one before and sits at the counter where a steaming cup of coffee is waiting for him. Sometime it is coffee, sometimes it is something more.<br/>
Andrew goes by his morning like he would on any other day except now, there is Neil's soft voice recounting tales of his times abroad, weaving stories and anecdotes of his life before moving to this small town. </p><p>By the time the diner opens, Andrew is busy with the regular stream of morning customers and Seth hurries in the kitchen with curses and complaints. Neil stays by the counter, laptop open and brows furrowed as he concentrates on the screen ahead of him. Andrew is not one for questions but Neil easily tells him of his online degree, his lack of actual school experience but a natural knack for languages that made it possible to become a translator, a job he could do anywhere, anytime. A job that would not tie him down to a place. Andrew tells him he's a runner and Neil does not argue. </p><p>Neil stays there until noon, leaves his place empty before the lunch rush passes by in a flurry of laughing children and suited up sales people making a stop before the next big deal that will make their career. Before, he sends Andrew a nod, sometimes a smile, distant, but not cold, a promise. Andrew does not believe in promises. Each morning he expects nothing, each day a man waits for him in varying states of disarray. </p><p>The summer ends, the heat dissipates. Andrew adds another layer, his armbands hidden once again behind sleeves. Neil does not change, his clothes stay the same, torn hoodies and ripped jeans, loose on his frame - hiding the battlefield of his childhood, Andrew supposes. He still shows up early for Andrew's shifts, he still rambles on and Andrew still listens. </p><p>Autumn has settled in, Andrew parks his car in its usual spot. He immediately notices that something is different. The figure waiting by the dumpsters is absent, no shadow against the back door to be seen. Andrew stills, shakes his head, he expects no one and damn his brain for tricking him. 
He heads to the door before he stops, hand reaching for the handle. A bag sits on the lone step leading to the back entrance, a ratty old thing barely holding itself together. Andrew knows who it belongs to. Before the name escapes him, he looks around the parking lot. He should be heading inside but the abandoned bag does not sit well in his guts, a feeling he has not felt in a long time. The sudden  emptiness that has appeared at the sight of the bag makes him stop and look around.</p><p>It only takes one look towards the greener parts of the parking space, at the trees gathered by the roadside, to find a familiar mop of hair, copper in the rising sun. Andrew slowly makes his way towards the fool, currently on his knees on the morning dew, elbows flattening the grass, eyes unmoving on a spot by the bushes.</p><p>Andrew heads his way, feet moving before he realises they have turned from the diner, his work, towards the red headed fool currently lying in the grass. </p><p>"Neil." The name escapes before Andrew manages to lock up his voice again. It startles him, this lack of control for something so simple as speaking, something he has no difficulty containing usually. </p><p>"Andrew," he breathes a sigh a relief. "I don't know what to do." He looks up then, his forehead creased, eyes narrowed. He tries for a smile, ends up with a grimace. </p><p>Andrew bends to his knees, sees the damp box hidden by the leaves. He hears a soft meow once he is leveled with Neil, a sound so fragile he barely hears it. He lifts the flaps of the box to reveal a litter of kittens, two climbing over their fallen siblings, the only ones still fighting it seems. </p><p>"What do we do?" Neil is still looking at Andrew, his teeth attacking the poor, torn skin of his lips, purple from the cold. </p><p>Andrew wants to say we do nothing. He wants to say there is no we, there is no him helping this poor excuse of an adult. There is a diner to open, people to ignore, peace to find in the routine of his morning, of his life. What he says leads him to his keys igniting the car, the engine roaring to life in a gentle purr. It leads to the man by his side in the passenger seat, the box on his knees.<br/>
Andrew can see the shaking fingers, hands tightly holding the cardboard in place. The cats' feeble cries are drowned by the car's engine. Andrew makes two calls, one to his boss, telling him the need for a replacement for the day. Neil hears a muffled complaint from the other end before Andrew ends the call. The name “Renee” is visible on the screen before Neil looks away. The exchange lasts longer, Andrew explaining shortly the situation, the call ending after a response just as short. </p><p>After that, the journey is quiet while Neil concentrates on continuing the damage to his mouth. The remaining small creatures are still alive in the cardboard box, fighting  for their life. Neil thinks that is what made him stop, made him want to pick them up and carry them to safety. His first thought had been to let them fight alone, like he had. The meows and spark in their eyes had stuck him in place before Andrew had arrived.</p><p>Andrew lights a cigarette, then another. His passenger sends a grateful tug of lips his way, hands busy cupping the cigarette instead of attacking his own flesh. Cold seeps into the leather and the thin layers of clothing as Andrew lets the ashes escape through the window. They don’t speak, they have never needed to. </p><p>They arrive at the only veterinarian in this town in less than ten minutes, Neil clutching the box tightly against his chest on the way to the doors. A petite woman waits for them by the entrance, multicolored hair barely touching her shoulders, eyes kind yet there is a spark in them, not so unlike the little creatures struggling for breath. She ushers them in, a floating hand near Neil’s shoulder, not touching, keeping her distance. </p><p>“What do we have here?” Her voice is gentle, her arms reaching for the box. Neil holds it tighter. A hand makes its way to the back of his neck, a small pressure as warm fingers hold him steady. His arms loosen around the cardboard, he realises his shirt is soaked from the sodden material.  He hands the box over to the young woman. Renee, Neil supposes she is the woman from the call, places the box on the floor before checking the insides. Her lips purse and she lifts the container with the kittens once again.  </p><p>“We are going to check them in the back, see those we can save,” she explains.  She quickly leaves the two of them in the foyer, alone. </p><p>The room holds several plastic chairs, sterile white walls, pamphlets and brochures encombre small tables across the place. The pressure on Neil's neck disappears as Andrews heads to the door. </p><p>"Wait." Neil does not know what makes him stop the other man, maybe it is the woman who he has just met that unnerves him, maybe it is the cold nothingness that replaces where Andrew's hand had been not moments ago. He fully expects to be ignored but Andrew stops, one hand on the door handle. He does not turn but his lack of movement is enough. </p><p>"Do you want me to stay?" The question hangs between them, Neil was not expecting Andrew to voice his desire, he was not expecting himself to be so transparent. </p><p>"Yes," he answers, the words foreign to him - accepting something, being given a choice - is not something he knows.<br/>
Andrew nods, unnoticeable if Neil hadn't been observing the other man for the last few months. He changes direction, places himself on the uncomfortable mobilier of the waiting room, a still and unmovable presence by Neil's side as he also sits on one of the cold plastic chairs. </p><p>They stay side by side and eventually Neil speaks. He talks of dogs roaming the streets, ribs apparent and eyes hungry, of never himself caring because he was also hanging by his nails to keep breathing. Of hating the weak as his mother beat it into him that fatigue was a flaw, slowing down a weakness, that letting yourself go was not an option. He tells Andrew his first thought was to end their fight, close the box and walk away. He does not even name it suffering, because you do not have time to suffer when you are trying to survive. Andrew’s eyes do not leave his face, his expression does not budge from its usual blankness and Neil can breathe. </p><p>After some time, Renee appears from the back. She explains that three of the tiny animals have not been able to survive the cold, tells them two are still kicking and screaming. There are two kittens, two living beings in need of a home and Neil says yes before the question has time to form. Then it is information to file away and papers to fill, appointments to make, to make sure they are doing fine and Neil finds himself once again in Andrew’s car. A box, dry this time, sits on his knees, two cats inside meowing for attention, blue eyes blinking as they stare at Neil. </p><p>Ten minutes later, Andrew swerves into the parking lot of the only shop in the area, a small but well provisioned store where you are likely to run into your neighbor, your fifth grade teacher and first love all in the same visit. Andrew is out the door before Neil has the time to ask what they are doing, the key still stuck on the ignition, doors unlocked.<br/>
He watches as the man walks into the store, shoulders braced against the cold. Neil watches for any signs of his exit. Several minutes pass before the kittens call for his attention. </p><p>For the first time since their discovery, Neil reaches hesitantly for the tiny critters screeching in their cardboard cage.  Their fur is soft, their ribs not so much. The lack of nutrients was the main cause of their siblings passing, Renee had said. They had been given small doses of things to keep them healthy but needed food, adapted for kittens so young, and warmth. They would need shots and check ups, toys to stimulate their minds and a litter box to save his apartment floor. Neil is making a mental list of all the things he would need once his - his - cats are safely brought to his place when the trunk is opened, shaking Neil from his thoughts. Bags being manhandled can be heard from his seat before the trunk is closed. Soon after, Andrew opens the door to the drivers side and they are off again. </p><p>“Had some shopping to do?” Andrew only answers with a grunt, two cigarettes in his hands before Neil can say anything else.</p><p>They arrive at Neil’s place a few minutes later, an old decrepit building barely standing, dreary grey walls and flaking paint. Andrew is unable to stop the disgust from his features. </p><p>“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Andrew has stopped trying to keep his eyebrows from lifting when dealing with this idiot.</p><p>“Well, I’ll see you,” Neill says. The door opens and closes, fingers tapping gently against the window. Andrew lowers it, the redhead leans down, the box in his arms. </p><p>“Thank you,” he says, again. Andrew stares, then slowly reaches for his own door handle. He is out the door before Neil has the time to ask himself what he is doing. The trunk opens and closes once again and Andrew is waiting on the sidewalk with two bags overflowing with mysteries, waiting for Neil to lead the way. </p><p>Surprisingly, the building hides an impressive security system. Andrew hides his approval, does a bad job at it.<br/>
“I told you it was not so bad.”<br/>
“Shut up. We will be lucky if the staircase does not give way before we reach your floor.” Neil laughs, going ahead with his new roommates.<br/>
They climb the steps, two floors later reaching Neil’s door. The box is balanced on his knee as Neil manages to unlock his door, pushing through with his shoulder, Andrew not far behind.</p><p>The apartment is small but functional. There is everything someone would need, a sofa, kitchen appliances and curtains to keep the morning light out. The apartment is cold but there are bits of warmth and pieces of life. One wall holds pictures and polaroids, faces Andrew thinks he could recognize if the lighting was not so feeble. There is a knitted blanket, a patchwork of colored fabric hanging on a worn armchair. The kitchen is small but the fridge has photographs and magnets to keep them in place. Neil lowers the box on the stained rug by the entrance, he pushes the box gently forward so the side becomes the bottom, the cats’ noses poking out and sniffing the new unknown area. </p><p>“So… Thank you. Do you want a coffee - or anything else or -” Neil blabbers away unusually, stops once he notices Andrew’s arms extended towards him, bags heavy. He reaches for them, places them on the floor before he empties the content on the floor. Cat food and toys litter the floor, there are bowls and boxes of treats and all the things Neil had made a mental list of. The kittens slowly escape their old cage, worried steps and fumbling paws on the soft carpet. </p><p>Neil feels something in his chest tighten. Andrew is standing tall and straight in his apartment, his sleeves pulled over his elbows, keys in hand ready to depart. </p><p>“Staring,” he says. Neil does not look away. There is something constant and sharp about the other man that makes Neil’s heart thump, thump against his chest. It is ridiculous, it feels commonplace. The man leads the way to the door, Neil follows, careful with the new inhabitants. Andrew stops on the other side of the door, waits for Neil to lean against the frame, stare never wavering. There is a new smile there, Andrew does not want to notice. This one he thinks might be just for him. He leaves without a word, Neil’s face alight in his mind, following him to his unfinished shift at the diner.</p><p>The rest of the day is filled with orders of milkshake and fries and kiddy menus, please. There is no rush hour, just a stream of old and new, families and friends. Seth and Kevin keep busy behind the counter as Andrew prepares orders with easeful dexterity, a cigarette behind his ears ready to burn his lungs away on his next break. Wimack arrives before closing time, to thank Kevin for his help, to make sure Andrew has not gotten himself into trouble. They close the diner before Andrew fills four glasses with the good whiskey from the back storage. Wimack and Kevin discuss the business, Kevin’s little league’s team, Seth mentions a new idea for the menu, Andrew drinks, he listens to the voices planning for the future.<br/>
The night ends like any other night, each heading there way. Except, if he blinks too slowly,  Andrew sees blue gems and dimples. Red and orange sparks fills his brain and he hates it, hates that he hates it, hates that he feels anything at all for it. </p><p>The next morning, no one waits for him, not even an abandoned bag. The day passes by in a blur, customers rude and kind alike, weird food habits and bland tastes fill his day. The next shift is much the same. Something scrapes against the back of his mind, a smile saying “I’ll see you tomorrow.”</p><p>A week passes and on his next day off, his car stops on the curb, the grey building just as ramshackle as his previous visit. He makes his way to the second floor, slow and precise, fist firm against the wooden door. Two knocks later, a distant “no not the sofa!” and the sound of breaking glass travels through the thin door before a lock is popped and a mop of messy red curls appears. </p><p>“Oh, hi.” The smile is back and Andrew ignores it, does not notice it. He pushes through to the other side, unconsciously careful not to touch the other man as he opens the door wider. The room is the same if you overlook the kitten hanging to the back of the sofa, tiny claws sunk deep into the fabric. Broken glass covers the tiled floor by the kitchen counter and a ginger ball of fluff peeks from a cupboard. </p><p>“You were not at the diner.” Andrew does not say he was concerned, Neil hears it anyway.</p><p>“I’m sorry, I wanted to call, then realised I didn’t even have your number.” He laughs, runs a scared hand through his tangles. “These are literal demons,” he continues, makes his way to the kitchen, </p><p>Andrew stops him with an arm centimetres away from his own. An eyebrow is quirked his way, Andrew stares, unimpressed. The floor is a minefield of glass. Neil stifles the reflex to imitate Andrew’s “staring” comment.<br/>
He grabs a pair of sneakers by the entrance, caked with dry mud and crushed blades of grass stuck to the soles. By the time the floor is cleared, no new cuts added to his collection, Neil reaches the cupboard for the ginger monster still hiding away. Andrew has the other one curled on one knee, fingers stroking gently the short fur between his ears. The litter has been cleaned, the bowls refilled. The blanket is newly folded on the armchair. Neil sits besides Andrew, a small distance away, the little monster purring against his own beating heart. </p><p>“Thank you.” Andrew continues to stroke the kitten, its purring intensifies. He acknowledges Neil with a scoff and his hand, palm up, towards the young man. Neil hesitates, hand reaching to place his palm over Andrew’s when the other man says: “Your phone.” </p><p>Neil does not know if he has ever blushed, he guesses there is always a first time for everything when it comes to Andrew.</p><p>“Right, yeah.” He reaches into his pocket, quickly realises he left it to charge two days ago and promptly forgot about it in his room. He gets up, realises one arm is still clutching the little demon to his chest and gently places it on Andrew’s other knee, making sure he approves before he does so. </p><p>The phone is fully charged and soon finds its place in Andrew’s waiting palm. Neil shuffles around the kitchen, gathers two cups of coffee, fills one with cream and sugar. He exchanges the phone for one of the cups and sits down once again, both men sipping their drinks in comfortable silence.<br/>
It does not take long before Neil explains his absence, the constant vigilance as the two demons tore through his apartment, claws and hisses at the ready, prepared to take down any furniture in their way. He scrunches his nose as he tells him of soiled bed sheets, continuous surveillance, of important documents to translate and forgotten deadlines. Yet there is a smile as he talks of soft, wet noses on his cheeks, paws in his hands, ears perking, waiting for a treat. </p><p>“It’s strange, having something living and breathing relying on a mess like me. I never thought I would be able to give something of myself to something so fragile and dependent. I guess time does help.” He smiles tenderly. Tender should not apply to this man, Andrew thinks. He is cunning words and cutting edges, eyes harsh and body always prepared for a flight. But when Andrew is by his side, the edges start to blur, the sharp corners become clouded. Instead, his mind fills with blue eyes softened by a smile and hands gentle around a cup of freshly brewed coffee, conversations whispered across a counter and jukebox muted in the background.</p><p>When Andrew finally leaves, after a second cup and an extensive introduction to the kittens Ginger and Black, Neil finds two new contacts added to his repertoire. Renee’s contact appears on the list, Andrew’s is on speed dial and Neil cannot control his grin.</p><p>The routine sets in again, except now Neil does not stay as long at the diner. He arrives after his morning run, soaked with sweat, smile prepared to shine as Andrew climbs out of his car. The blond serves him coffee and Neil discloses the new damage his furniture has acquired through the night. He leaves soon after the first customer. An hour later, on the clock, Andrew’s phone vibrates in his back pocket. Sometimes there is a comment on a broken lamp, sometimes it is a picture of two fur balls curled on the patchwork quilt on Neil’s sofa. Other times, the kittens, who grow by the day, are deposited on keyboards, in the crook of a neck. A picture shows a small ball of fur and red curls slipping from behind an ear, blocking the lenses of the camera. </p><p>Now, each night, Andrew hangs his apron and closes the diner’s doors and heads to the store. There, he picks up groceries, pastas and condiments and tins of cat food and not even an hour later, there is a knock at Neil’s door. Dinner is prepared, vegetables are cut as Neil scrunches his nose at the insulting leeks and other greens. A frozen pie is in the oven before they are finished with dinner, a cup of coffee in their hands, legs curled across the sofa with a movie ready to play and the kittens purring between them. Every night is the same, then it isn’t. </p><p>They are on the balcony. The doors leading inside are firmly shut, kittens safely locked inside. The night is still, stars hiding behind artificial lights. The temperatures have not dropped so much that their fingers turn blue but the chill has settled, seeping into their bones. Neil is leaning against the railing, a warm cup clutched in his hands. A cigarette lies half finished between Andrew’s fingers. They are mostly silent, sometimes Neil mentions a word he has learned during one of his numerous translations, sometimes Andrew hums in reply and files the new vocabulary away for later use. The men exchange half empty cups and cigarettes eroded to the filter, they trade truth, passed experiences and habits, sometimes without speaking, sometimes through whispers or imperceptible signs.</p><p>Their nights usually end like this, one last cup of warmth, one last cigarette burned to the filter, a silent goodbye from Andrew and he is out the door, engine coming alive and screeching away into the night. Leaving, then coming back. </p><p>Tonight is no different. Andrew reaches for the small heads buried beneath the blanket on the sofa, scratches each ear before checking for his keys and nodding towards Neil. In a few quick steps, he is by the door, hand turning the knob. </p><p>“Stay,” Neil says, and Andrew thinks he is mistaken, the voice faint. Again, he stops, turns and Neil is watching him and he repeats, this time louder, clearer, surer.</p><p>“Stay.” </p><p>And Andrew does.</p>
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